


they are both holy and free

by elijupiter



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fantasy High Freshman Year Spoilers (Dimension 20), Fantasy High Sophomore Year Spoilers (Dimension 20), Introspection, Religious Conflict, Religious Discussion, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:02:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28299408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elijupiter/pseuds/elijupiter
Summary: ‘Who are you, Kristen Applebees?’ She asks herself. ‘When you take away Helio, and Cassandra, and all the doubt, what’s left of you? Is there even anything left at all?’.Alternatively, Kristen Applebees on the subject of world religions (and their traumas).
Relationships: Adaine Abernant & Kristen Applebees, Kristen Applebees & Figueroth Faeth, Kristen Applebees & Jawbone O'Shaughnessey, Kristen Applebees & Ragh Barkrock, Kristen Applebees/Tracker O'Shaughnessey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12
Collections: Dimension 20 Big Bang





	they are both holy and free

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my d20bb fic! it's a labour of love, a lot of sleepless nights and my own religious trauma and i hope you enjoy it as much as i did writing it <3 check out aster @onestellarghost for their INCREDIBLE art for this fic!! i'm simply in love with it <33

For as awful as it was - and was it really that awful, looking back? - worshipping Helio was easy. It came as naturally to Kristen as breathing, as long as she kept those hot, shameful thoughts pushed down far enough into her lungs to hide them from sight, so no one would know her dirty secret. Now everyone she meets knows her secret, and yet Kristen doesn’t feel that much has changed. She's still confused, still doubting herself and everything around her - only now, doubt is a religious practice and not a sin. She doesn’t like to admit it, but she misses the strict rules of her parents and the church. Life was so simple: pray to Helio, evangelise the word of Helio, marry a nice Helioc man and have pretty little Helioc children someday. Everything made so much more sense. She was chosen; She had a role to play. Her path was already set out for her, long before she was born and written in some undisputed ancient text by old zealots whose word was law.

Now, she holds some twisted form of respect for those old priests and monks. Laying down the groundwork is hard. She’s already tried and failed twice with Yes, in both its exclamatory and interrogative forms. And while she loves Cassandra with all her heart and whatever’s left of her soul and much more in a way she can never quite accurately describe, Kristen keeps wondering why she had to be the first one, why someone else couldn’t have come along and done all this before her. Realistically, she knows why. It's what Tracker always tells her, as a compliment and sometimes an insult: ‘no one questions things like you do, Kristen.’ She is blessed and maybe cursed with a curious mind that never stops spinning and circling and thinking.

And Kristen loves questions, really she does. But questions are a lot easier to love when they come paired with answers, all wrapped up in perfect, neat little bows. Nothing about her or her faith is perfect or neat and that’s a good thing, but perfection and neatness make sense, and Kristen can’t help but wonder if she’s come this far only to be wrong and alone, having given up everything that was handed to her so readily - her old life, her cleric domain, her family.

She doesn’t miss her family, except when she does, and when she does, she misses them so hard it hurts her heart like the bloody horn of unicorn has impaled her chest. Again. Although, if she’s being pedantic - and what is she if not pedantic? - Kristen doesn’t miss her family. Her parents are racist, homophobic cultists, and she is a little jealous of Adaine for getting revenge on hers. What she does miss is the way things used to be. Before she went to Aguefort and met her best friends and died on the first day. She thinks a lot about heaven, and how much it sucked. And worse, for all it sucked, she at least wanted to belong there. But Kristen Applebees doesn’t belong. 

“What are you talking about babe? Of course you belong. You’re home. We’re home.” Tracker murmurs into her hair one night, as they’re curled up in bed, her girlfriend’s head nestled into her chest. Even after a year of dating Tracker, innocent forms of intimacy send shivers down her spine, like she’s breaking rules she doesn’t follow anymore. Kristen sighs a little, barely audible but nonetheless present, and wonders how to explain this feeling to Tracker when she hardly understands it herself.

“That’s not what I mean, I mean-” She takes a breath to steady herself and gather her thoughts, which as usual, are scattered in the haphazard mess that is her psyche. A million ideas lay awaiting to be explored, and she has to wade through them all to reach what she’s actually trying to say. Tracker notices this, because Tracker notices everything, and kisses her neck in gentle encouragement.

“I mean I don’t belong like I used to. Things used to be so simple, I was chosen by Helio - to the Church, I was the best thing that ever happened to them; they loved me-”

“They tried to open a Hellmouth in you, Kristen. People don’t try to start the apocalypse using people that they love as sacrifices.” Tracker frowns, and of course she’s right, but it’s not like Kristen doesn’t know that already. It’s just that the fear of being made into a Hellmouth in order for the Periditional Contradoxy to take place is far outweighed by the loneliness she feels now, because even if she was their sacrifice, at least she was still something to them. Now, she is nothing.

“But what if they didn’t do that?” She asks weakly, turning to press her face against Tracker's head so her voice is muffled. Her girlfriend, so divinely patient, rubs circles on her calloused palms, all gentle and warm.

“Then they would’ve done it to some other person chosen by Helio, and they probably would’ve succeeded. Daybreak, your parents, the other Harvestmen - they weren’t good people.” 

“I know,” She replies with little conviction. Now, it is Tracker’s turn to sigh softly, and nudge Kristen into a sitting up so they’re facing each other. Tracker is looking at her with pity in her eyes and she hates it, but she has to admit that she must seem a sorry state.

“You’re really torn up about this, still, aren’t you?”

The question feels like a punch to her gut, and for a moment Kristen is breathless. Admitting that she is still confused about her faith feels like admitting defeat, and she feels panic begin to bubble up from her stomach into her chest.

“I don’t- Maybe? I mean- Yeah, yeah I’m still- I just feel like- I feel awful because I have Cassandra and that should be enough but it- it’s not and I don’t know what to do.” 

Instantly, Tracker’s hands are on her shoulders, healing magic seeping into her skin and undoing the high strung tension in her muscles. Her magic, though primal, feels quiet and cool and smooth, unlike Kristen’s, which is hot and volatile, and still has the faintest scent of popcorn that she can’t seem to get rid of.

“It’s okay, babe. Breathe with me, alright?” Tracker inhales and exhales until she copies her, feeling her anxiety start to subside.

“Do you want me to get Uncle Jawbone? I think you should maybe talk to him about all of this.”

‘No,’ She thinks, dreading the thought of more people seeing her at her worst, but she can’t stand disappointing people, especially Tracker, who looks so worried and who just wants to help her, even if she isn’t sure she even needs help.

“Yes,” She says, wishing it wasn’t a lie.

*

Before she can even explain what’s wrong (not that she fully understands it well enough herself to do that anyway), Jawbone has handed her a mug of steaming hot tea and wrapped her up in a blanket as they sit together in the kitchen, her curled up on the breakfast bar while he leans against the counter opposite her.

“Tracker tells me you’re dealing with some anxiety about Helio still?” He asks gently, far nicer that Kristen deserves. She doesn’t respond, doesn’t know how - just sits with her hands wrapped tightly around her mug, burning hot and comforting.

“So..?”

“So?”

“So, is it true? Religious questions still on your mind, kiddo?”

She shrugs, attempting nonchalance (and likely failing, if her trembling hands and sudden loss of voice are anything to go by). It takes her a while to build the sentence she wants out of the scattered fragments of words in her head, like mismatched puzzle pieces.

“I thought I had everything figured out. It was supposed to be perfect, but I still have questions and I keep thinking that maybe I’ve come this far for nothing, because I was wrong all along because when am I ever right?” 

Jawbone takes a moment to respond, and she takes a moment to overthink things, as usual. He taps her arm before he begins to speak, bringing her back from the deep philosophical dilemma she was briefly neck deep in.

“Well, first things first, I’m proud of you for opening up about this. It isn’t easy, but you’re doing it, and I really appreciate that.” He starts, and it’s almost too much for her. Did Jawbone have to be so nice all the time?

Of course he did, it’s who he is. But that fact doesn’t make her feel any less guilty for wasting his time on her moral quandary bullshit.

“And I’ve noticed you fixate on being right a lot. Let me ask you - is being wrong about this the worst thing that could happen to you?”

Yes, she thinks automatically, then rethinks and ponders it more. Would it really be the end of the world? Sure, she probably wouldn’t be a cleric anymore, and all the things she’d struggled through would’ve been for nothing, and the idea of her parents being right makes her sick-

“I don’t know,” She says, which seems to be her answer to everything these days. And yes, that is kind of the point of worshipping Cassandra,  
but that fact doesn’t do all that much to comfort her. 

“Let me put it this way,” Jawbone murmurs, his thumb rubbing comforting circles on her hand.  
“If Helio somehow turned out to be the ‘right answer’, would your life really change all that much?” 

“Well, yeah - I’d have to go back to my parents and the Church and-“

He interrupts her before she can spiral, and stuns her into silence with two words.

“Says who?” 

Kristen can only shrug in response. Says who? Says the small voice in her head that reminds her of all her failures and tells her that she doesn’t deserve any of the good things in her life - but that wouldn’t be the best thing to tell one’s school guidance counsellor / girlfriend’s uncle / replacement authority figure, so she stays quiet.

“No one is forcing you to go back there, Kristen. Now I’m not one for faith, but I do know that belief shouldn’t be about claiming moral authority over others. If your faith makes you feel better about the world, then wouldn’t you rather be wrong and happy than miserable and right?”

“Yeah,” She swallows. “No, you’re completely right. It shouldn’t matter to me. But it does, and I can’t change that and I don’t know why.”

Jawbone narrows his eyes at her slightly, and scratches at the fur on his chin. She doesn’t always like the way he looks at her like he can see right through her, into her soul and out the other side. But he always means well, so she tries to stop wriggling self consciously and let him stare and think in peace.

“Kristen, kiddo, you’ve never seen a therapist about this, have you?”

She chokes out a laugh of disbelief, almost spilling her tea.

“A therapist? Why the hell would I need one of those?” Kristen asks incredulously. Therapists were for people with problems - people like Adaine, who had been neglected her whole life and suffered terribly because of it. People like Aelwyn, who had been kidnapped and tortured for a year by her parents, after years of being forced to be perfect. Hell, even Ragh saw a therapist because of his repressed issues with Dayne and Daybreak. But Kristen? She was just a spoilt little kid who left home because the god she believed in turned out to be a frat boy. That hardly constituted a problem, right?

Jawbone frowns a little, and Kristen wonders exactly what she said wrong, but then again she's usually wrong, so it could be pretty much anything, and she’s not the best at reading people anyway.

“Well first of all, everyone should go to therapy regardless of any issues going on. It’s like exercise, right? You don’t just do it when you really need to, you’re supposed to keep up with it to keep you on top. Therapy is for the mentally healthy just as much as it is for the mentally ill.”

She has to take a minute to process that because first of all, he’s exactly right, and second of all, she isn’t sure whether she even is mentally healthy. Healthy people don’t have breakdowns over religious questions that don't have answers, even though she really wants them to.

“Second of all, Kristen, whatever’s bothering you is definitely an issue. Kid, it’s making you miserable.”

“And? Isn’t that normal?” 

“If you were to have all these religious questions and doubts without it making you anxious or interfering with your life, then yeah. It wouldn’t be normal exactly - normal isn’t a thing, not really - but you wouldn’t need to seek help.”

She goes to point out that it doesn’t interfere with her life, until she thinks about the muffled, terrifying panic attacks in her abandoned chapel bedroom; the dates with Tracker that get ruined because she shouldn’t be fixating on religion when she’s out with her girlfriend, but she does anyway; the fact that she always makes the effort to avoid Elmville’s church of Sol altogether, even if the detour is wildly inconvenient; and realises that yeah, maybe this isn’t normal. 

So she tells Jawbone she’ll think about therapy (and by think she means overthink, but that isn’t at all out of the ordinary for her), and heads back to bed in the early hours of the morning, knowing she won’t sleep, but not wanting to take up space anywhere else. Tracker is almost asleep by the time she slips under the covers, but turns to face her with bleary eyes.

“How’d it go?”

She shrugs, hoping Tracker can’t see her chewing at her fingernails in the dark.

“Alright, I guess. Jawbone wants me to see a therapist, which is like, y’know, weird or whatever but it’s cool, everything’s cool.” Kristen says in one breath, trying to say all the right things but every wrong thing coming out instead.

“I think therapy’s a great idea, babe. Why do you think it’s weird?”

Why indeed, she thinks, staring up at the ceiling, obscured in darkness. Why why why.

*

Kristen eventually falls asleep, and dreams of pages and pages of faces she cannot remember, desperate sketches of unfamiliar gods scattered at her ankles as she searches and searches and searches without ever figuring out what it is exactly that she’s searching for. She wakes up with a pounding headache, which is how she awakens most mornings post Nightmare Forest, as if her brain is so relieved to be out of there that it hurts.Tracker is still asleep beside her, snoring softly and burrowing her head under her pillow. Kristen casts a quiet Healing Word to try and relieve her migraine, but as usual it fails to make much of a difference. She supposes it’s the lack of conviction in her spells, as if her magic doesn’t believe that she really wants to be healed - which isn’t entirely untrue, to give her magic some credit. It’s not that she wants to be in pain, it’s just that nothing in her life is all that consistent apart from her misery, so she is somewhat reluctant to get rid of it. Still, she attempts a Cure Wounds and gets halfway through a Prayer of Healing before giving up and getting out of bed as the sun slowly rises, filtering watery light through the stained glass windows of the derelict chapel she calls her bedroom.

Casting spells always makes Kristen hungry, like her magic is eating away at her bit by bit, leaving less and less of her behind until some days she looks in the mirror and sees a stranger staring back at her. Today is one of those days, she realises, as she frowns at the tired, freckled redhead girl looking back at her, in pyjama shorts and one of Tracker’s oversized band shirts. ‘Who are you, Kristen Applebees?’ She asks herself. ‘When you take away Helio, and Cassandra, and all the doubt, what’s left of you? Is there even anything left at all?’.

She either doesn’t know the answer, or simply cannot bear to admit it to herself, so she heads to the kitchen, early enough that she can avoid the scrutiny from most of Mordred Manor’s well meaning but often nosy residents. There is a smallish figure sat at the island as Kristen enters, wrapped in some sort of shawl and holding a chipped mug, with long, pale blonde hair and watery blue eyes and the old permanent sneer missing from her face.

“Aelwyn,” She says, in recognition and surprise and as a greeting all at once. 

“Applebees.” The elven girl says back curtly, which is at least an upgrade from Bible Girl, which is what Aelwyn used to call her. She doesn’t mind the nickname, she just wishes it didn’t have to be her family’s name too.

“That’s- yep that’s my name- Uh, what are you doing up so early? It’s like, before the time most people are awake, haha.” 

She wants to sink into the floor. Sinking directly into the ground would be really, really good right now. She’d land in a secret passageway or something, and at least she wouldn’t be here-

“Couldn’t sleep.” Aelwyn replies curtly, thankfully choosing not to comment on Kristen’s flustered behaviour. It’s not that Aelwyn makes her nervous, per se, it’s just that she’s so fragile still, and all Kristen is good at is breaking things. Sometimes she thinks she’d make a much better barbarian than a cleric, but her party needs her. Her friends need her. And she really, really needs them to need her.

“You?”

“Same.” She replies quietly, moving to make herself a mug of coffee and some toast. There’s a pregnant pause in the kitchen as she figures out the right words to say, quickly finding that there are none. 

“Aelwyn, you- Would you say you have trauma?”

Kristen has her back to Aelwyn, but still feels the other girl’s body stiffen, and internally chastises herself for being so abrupt. It takes Aelwyn a minute to respond, and all the while she stays staring at the toaster that seemed to be taking infinitely longer than usual to make her breakfast.

“Yes, I suppose I would. What’s it to you?” Aelwyn speaks carefully, each word planned and precise. Kristen wishes she could have that level of foresight, but she has a trigger happy brain, constantly reacting to things suddenly and explosively, with no warning - leaving everyone (including herself, perhaps most of all) exhausted and drained.

“Nothing! I was just asking-” The toast pops out of the toaster, making her flinch more than she is willing to admit. “I was just asking, cause I’ve been talking to Jawbone and he said that all my church stuff might- it might be messing with me.” 

She turns around to grab the butter from the fridge and a knife and sees Aelwyn staring back at her, cool and analytical and intimidating, even in pyjamas and with messy, unbrushed hair. She swallows. As much as she likes attention, likes talking and laughing and being around people, there is part of her that hates being watched, hates people potentially looking past all her defences and pretenses and actually seeing her, because she isn’t sure what that person actually looks like - if that person really even exists at all.

“That makes sense,” Aelwyn replies eventually, glancing away to look into the dredges of her tea. “You’re just a little bit obsessed with it, that’s all.”

Kristen bristles at that, not because it’s inaccurate, but because she didn’t know its accuracy was so obvious to other people - especially someone like Aelwyn, who she rarely speaks to. What do the other Bad Kids think of her then? What must Tracker think of her? She realises she is clutching the butter knife so hard in her fist that her clenched fingers are pressing crescent moons into her palm, and she takes a breath.

“I know I am. It’s just- I went my whole life believing that I was special, that my parents really loved me, that I knew exactly who I was. And now… my parents still refuse to speak to me altogether. It’s like I’m no one to them. It’s like I’m no one at all. And I can’t help but think that for as much as it sucked in hindsight, life was a lot easier back then. And maybe I miss it, even though I don’t, not really.”

She hears Aelwyn whistle in disbelief, and turns around to face her again, slightly burnt toast in hand. The elven girl’s expression is a mix of dry humour, pity and relief, and it makes her stomach curdle.

“Yep, you and me both, Applebees.”

And maybe it’s a good thing that Kristen finally has someone who can relate at least somewhat to what she’s going through, someone who can empathise rather than merely sympathise with all her struggles. Maybe it’s a good thing that she’s even able to talk about it at all, no longer silenced by her fear of admitting she might have a problem. Maybe all of those things are true, but none of them stop Kristen’s heart sinking in her chest at the realisation she is a far more broken person than she first anticipated.

*

Zayn catches her still standing in the kitchen an hour later or maybe more - time doesn’t quite make sense in the expanse of her thoughts ñ; there’s a distortion or warping of existence, like she lives in a bubble underwater while the world around her breathes air. The ghost floats in from the ceiling, like he usually does most mornings whenever she gets up early enough to see him. She can’t quite read his expression as he regards her, but whether it’s because of his translucency or her social ineptitude, she can’t tell.

“Should I get Tracker?” He asks, forgoing a greeting. It would be so easy to say yes, to force Tracker out of bed and into her arms, but she can’t bring herself to do it. It makes her skin hot with guilt to admit that she’s not a lot of fun to be around, especially recently, and she can’t bear to burden Tracker with anymore of her company.

“No- no, it’s okay. I’m- I’m fine. It’s whatever.”

“Okay.” 

Kristen half expects Zayn to press further, because it doesn’t take a lot of insight to see she’s very much not fine, but why would he? Her problems aren’t his business; they’re barely even her own. 

“Cool. I guess I’m- I guess I’ll go.” Her awkwardness makes her want to scream. Zayn is not an enemy. Zayn is her friend - sort of. He’s Adaine’s friend, and so is she, right? Ayda would mention some sort of transitive friendship, but Kristen is far more used to giving and giving and giving until she’s empty, and never receiving anything in return. So why is she so afraid of him? She looks at him and sees her bible thrown into a vat of corn, cursed with infernal magic. The hellmouth she was meant to be. The Harvestmen and their stupid Perditional Contradoxy and her stupid parents and stupid Helio, who she wishes she could talk to, even though she wishes she doesn’t wish that. She turns to leave the kitchen suddenly, dropping her gaze from Zayn’s. She can feel his eyes on her back, and when he speaks she freezes.

“Yeah. You’re alright, Kristen. Get some sleep.”

The panic that had started to creep up her spine into her ribcage where her heart sits, a cold, dead thing, her weak butterfly barely fluttering, stills somewhere behind her belly. ‘Get some sleep.’ She certainly isn’t going to, but the sentiment is one she would almost call comforting.

*

Group therapy is somehow both the same and completely different to how Kristen had always imagined it. The counselling room on the psych ward of Saint Owen’s (a hospital, which she is in because she is unwell, and that fact definitely doesn’t terrify her) is nice enough but bland, with desaturated posters and bulletins covering the off white walls. She’s surprised to see people she recognises, although she shouldn’t be - Adaine has definitely mentioned seeing familiar faces here. The elf in question is sat to her right, with Boggy on her shoulder, fiddling with the sunflower pin on her denim jacket. Kristen doesn’t recognise the other human kid sat to her left, but she notices Shellford Turtleperson a few seats away and Ostentatia Wallace across the circle, sat seemingly as far away from Shellford as possible.

The therapist, a stout halfling man in a button up and dark jeans whose name she can’t remember enters last, closing the doors with a quiet but foreboding click. He introduces himself again but Kristen isn’t listening; she’s too busy going over and over the answers to the questions Adaine said they usually ask here, answers she thought of ahead of time so she doesn’t come across too weird or neurotic or strange. She vaguely hears Adaine recap her week, from the minor panic attack she was able to handle during her enchantment exam, to the movie night she had with Aelwyn that made her cry but it was good, really good, and then it’s Kristen’s turn, and all her overthinking immediately disappears and she’s left with nothing but herself, and that really isn’t much of a reassurance.

“So, Kristen, how was your week? I know you’re new here, but feel free to share anything that comes to mind.” The halfling man says with a smile that she can’t help but read as a bared grin.

“Oh, right, yeah. I’m, uh, I’m Kristen- but you already knew that- and, uh, my week was pretty boring, I guess?” Which isn't a full lie; her week was notably uneventful, mainly because she had been shut up in her room, avoiding interaction with anyone that wasn’t Tracker. 

“So I had a talk with someone and they said it might be good if I swung by here, but just ignore me. I’m basically not even here, ha.” She finishes and instantly regrets it, feeling as if she overshared despite saying barely anything at all.

“No one gets ignored here. We’re all listening, and we’re all here to support you - right guys?” The therapist encourages an awkward sea of murmured confirmations that washes over the circle, and Kristen makes eye contact with Adaine, who messages her - ‘It’s not as bad as you’re thinking. Give it a try, it’ll help.’ She replies with a hesitant ‘Okay,’ feeling even more uncertain, even though she trusts Adaine - Adaine wouldn’t lie, Adaine is the Oracle, she would know if this session will end in flames. But logic has no space in the cracks between her messy, demanding thoughts, so she is uncertain nonetheless.

“I guess- I guess I thought I was over some stuff that happened a while ago, and it turns out I’m like, really not over it, which sucks because it’s like ‘get it together already’, y’know?”

Kristen stumbles her way through her vague but personal explanation, sort of wanting to cry even though nothing bad has happened yet, and anyway she hasn’t cried in months, not since the Nightmare Forest, and surely a therapy session can’t be worse than that, right? She isn’t sure, because it’s starting to feel like it.

The halfling man nods, even though she’s sure none of that made any sense. She glances at Adaine again, then out of the small, prison like window opposite her; then at the floor, studying the threadbare carpet like her life depends on it.

“That’s a real and valid concern that I think a lot of us have - not being over things we feel we should be. But y’know, recovery isn’t linear, Kristen. You’re sixteen; you don’t need to have everything figured out right now.”

‘Yes I do,’ She thinks, keeping her eyes fixed downwards. ‘Because if I don’t have that then what do I have?’

Adaine must have been casting a Detect Thoughts, or maybe she’s far more observant that Kristen has previously given her credit for, because she hears a quiet but steady voice in her mind whisper, ‘You have me, Kristen. You have us.’ 

She nods slightly but doesn’t look up, wishing she could believe it.

*

The next day, Kristen does the unthinkable and skips school. It’s not actually unthinkable, not really - Fig skips all the time, and that’s when she’s not on tour; and Tracker doesn’t even go to school, being homeschooled by Jawbone before he started at Aguefort. But still, it feels wrong all the same. Hot, shameful guilt bubbles in her throat when Sandralynn knocks on her door to wake her up, since she missed breakfast, and she calls out in a croaky voice that she’s not really feeling it today, so she’s taking the day off if that’s okay? Sandralynn replies yes, of course it is, but must have thought it strange, because a few minutes later she hears Jawbone pad down the corridor.

“Not going in today, kiddo?” He asks from outside the door. She’s grateful for it, not wanting him to pity her anymore than he already does from seeing her curled up and miserable.

“Nope,” She answers as nonchalantly as she can. “School is just, like, not the vibe right now.”  
It sounds like a grin appears on Jawbone’s face when he speaks, and Kristen can almost imagine him wiggling his eyebrows at her.

“Looking to spend some time with Tracker? Don’t worry, I’m not mad.”

Kristen blinks before she can reply, and realises that most people would, in fact, be skipping school to hang out with their girlfriends. But not her - Tracker had left early that morning with Ragh to set up brunch with their LGBTQ+ social club that she’s been meaning to join but just can’t handle meeting new people right now, especially confident, beautiful queer people with no questions or crises. 

“Yeah, we were planning on going out later. You know how it is.” 

It’s almost too easy for her to lie, and it’s so convincing that Kristen herself begins to believe it. The dishonesty drips off her tongue like honey, sinful and delicious. She likes lying, more than she should, and even about things that don’t matter. It feels like rebellion, even though she doesn’t have anything to rebel against anymore.

Jawbone believes her, and she can’t blame him; she’s getting really good at putting up this nonchalant, unruffled front, like she still hadn’t let go of those bitter cortados and coffee shop tables full of ghostly, apathetic philosophy students. She’s maybe not quite ready to admit that she misses her old Spirit Guardians, but her unwillingness to acknowledge the feeling doesn’t make it lessen or go away.

She distantly hears Jawbone say something and leave, the old floorboards creaking under his weight, but she is too deep inside her own head to pay proper attention. Before Kristen realises it, it’s almost noon and she’s still in bed, going back and forth between absent-mindedly checking her crystal for messages she won’t reply to, and staring up at the ceiling with its cracks and dents forming abstract patterns and pictures that she can’t quite make out. Kristen is hungry and thirsty and really needs to pee, but she can’t summon the energy to move. She feels immalleable inside her own body, stagnant in sadness.

She sees her crystal light up with another message, and Kristen slowly rolls over to read it with tired, heavy eyes. It’s from Lydia, Ragh’s mom, and it says ‘Hey kiddo. Chilli sound good for lunch?’ 

Before she can think that yes, maybe that does sound good, her stomach decides for her with a loud grumble. With effort that feels like moving a mountain, Kristen gets out of bed. She spares herself the sorry sight of her own reflection and makes her way downstairs, not bothering to change or brush her hair. It’s not like Lydia hasn’t seen her look a mess - when Tracker was in Fallinel, she lived in her pyjamas for a month and ate nothing but oatmeal and defrosted uncooked pizza rolls because she didn’t want to leave her room to put them in the oven. So yeah, the standards were pretty low.

By the time Kristen gets to the kitchen, Lydia is already at the stove, making something delicious. Once she and Ragh moved in, Jawbone lowered everything in the kitchen to her height, which made the counters the perfect height for Kristen to sit opposite the oven with her knees curled up to her chest. Lydia kindly chooses not to comment on her appearance or truancy, and instead turns to to face her with her fist offered out. Kristen reaches out and meets it with her own.

“What are you thinking, veggie or con carne?” 

She shrugs.

“Veggie? I don’t mind.”

There’s a moment of silence, but Kristen is either comfortable enough to not feel awkward, or too emotionally exhausted to care. The past few days have felt like combat inside her head - even more than it normally does. Lydia eventually sets down two plates of steaming food on the breakfast table, not bothering to use the dining room, all cold and formal. Kristen slides off the counter and sits down opposite Lydia, and spent several minutes poking at the food she has suddenly lost her appetite for. She’s definitely hungry, and the chilli smells great, but her stomach is all tied up in knots. Lydia probably knows that she told Jawbone she was hanging out with Tracker. Lydia knows Tracker went out that morning with Ragh. Lydia knows she made up the date thing to Jawbone. Lydia knows she’s a liar. She feels like she’s going to throw up, but she can’t seem to move from her seat, her body like panicked lead. She can’t even make eye contact with Lydia when the woman speaks.

“Is something wrong with the food?”

Kristen’s need for approval momentarily outweighs her anxiety, and she digs into her plate so as to not raise suspicion.

“Nope, it’s great. I’m just… in my head, a little bit.” She says while chewing, because her manners are awful and she knows they are because her parents were too busy showing off their Helio chosen child to teach her something as trivial as not to speak with her mouth full. She wishes they would’ve, but there’s a lot of things she wishes her parents would’ve done, and table etiquette is far from the top of the list.

“Anything I can help with?” Lydia offers, cutting through her introspection like a knife, pulling her back to the present. She instinctively shakes her head, then pauses to think. 

“Are you religious, Lydia?” She asks hesitantly, not sure if she wants the answer, but slightly less unsure that she doesn’t. The half orc woman raises an eyebrow slightly and shrugs.

“Well, I was raised believing in the orcish god, Grumsh One-Eye.” She answers, but Kristen knows the difference between being raised to believe and choosing to believe very well.

“What about now?”

If Lydia is put off by the interrogation, she doesn’t mention it, and Kristen isn’t always the best at insight. 

“Now? I don’t know, I don’t usually talk about it. I don’t know if I’d call myself one of his followers, but I don’t not believe in him. That make any sense?” 

“Yes,” Kristen says with maybe a little too much ardour, immediately relating to her words. 

“It’s like you don’t really worship him anymore but all you’ve ever known is worshipping him so you don’t know if you even know how to do anything else-” She continues with fervour, making Lydia clear her throat to interrupt. 

“Yeah, I guess it is like that. Why, you feeling the same way?” 

Kristen pauses to wring her hands and chew on the inside of her cheek, trying to summon the words she can never find, or maybe doesn’t want to find.

“Kinda? It’s like, my whole life until two years ago was being Helio’s chosen. And now that I don’t have that, I feel like my whole life is just not being Helio’s. It’s like- I’ve defined myself as one thing forever, and now that I don’t have it I’m just defining myself as not being that thing, and what even is that? I’m trying to define myself by what I’m not, not what I am now. But I don’t know how to change that, and it sucks.” She lets out a shuddering sigh at the end and sort of feels like crying, but represses the urge. No more wasting time with tears; it’s weak, and the only thing she is clinging to is being strong.

“You don’t know whether there is anything else to you than this one thing, right?”

Kristen nods frantically, her forkful of food hovering in mid air.

“Well, I know there’s not much I can do to convince you, but there is plenty more to you than your past. Y’know, some days I wonder if there’s anything else to me other than this thing.” Lydia gestures to the cracked, glowing skin of her chest, where the edge of the gem could just be seen peeking out above her sweatshirt. Kristen immediately berates herself for complaining to Lydia; her problems (if they can even be called that, they are so shallow and selfish), were nothing compared to the trauma of sacrificing your body to save the world, whereas Kristen’s death in the Temple was entirely for her own gain. Sure, it worked out in the end, but her friends had needed her, while she wandered off on her own, rejected both Galacea and Sol, and punched Helio. (Okay, so that last one had felt pretty good, despite occasionally being plagued by guilt for hurting a god that only ever loved her, even if that love was stupid and broken and wrong).

“It’s easy to fall victim to those thoughts. But I know I’m more than the adventurer who stuck a gem into her chest. For one, I’m a mother to an incredible, kind, brilliant, beautiful son.” Kristen has to force herself to swallow the food she’s eating, even though Lydia’s words make her want to choke. Has her mother ever called her any of those things? She can’t remember, which is maybe a good thing, but a terrifying thing nonetheless.

“And I make a damn good chilli.” Lydia chuckles and she pulls her face into a half-hearted grin in return, feeling nothing. 

“Do you ever regret it, even though it was the right thing to do? Like, don’t you wish you could go back to before it all happened?” She asks, and it’s clear she’s not talking about Lydia anymore. The half orc woman shrugs through a mouthful of food.

“It’s best not to think about what ifs, kid. You’ll drive yourself crazy wondering about what could have been.”

Kristen can’t help the shrill, desperate tone from slipping into her voice: “What if I’m already crazy?” Her voice echoes through the empty house and she realises she has cast Thaumaturgy on herself by accident. She’s less and less able to control her magic with each passing day, but then again, when has she ever truly felt in control of anything? 

Lydia looks at her with some vague concern in her eyes but doesn’t try and say anything comforting, which she appreciates. The last thing she needs is some useless words of wisdom - as much as she loves Jawbone and Tracker and everyone else that keeps trying to fix her. Lydia doesn’t do that, and it’s nice.

“Shit stinks, kid.” Is all she says in response, after a pregnant pause. Kristen pokes at her plate and thinks, ‘Yeah, it does.’

*

Kristen isn’t sure why she didn’t open up to Ragh about this earlier. He practically went through the same thing she has with Dayne and Coach Daybreak, but she has never thought to ask him about it. She has this bad habit (habit isn’t quite the right word, because it implies a temporary problem. it’s more accurate to say that she is a bad habit of her own troubled mind, a fleeting nuisance, rather than anything with potential.) where she forgets other people exist because she’s so far inside her little bubble of overthinking and self deprecation. 

She’s sat in Mordred’s back garden, distantly watching Ragh work out as she lazes on the warm grass. It’s the kind of pleasant but cool weather that comes in early September, before the cold fingers of winter come creeping in. She likes being outside, even though she spends most of her time shut up in her room. The world, in all its greatness, reminds her of how small she is and it helps. Her insignificance is a comfort. She distractedly digs her fingers into the ground and pulls up grass and roots and dirt, unaware of her destructive tendencies, watching Ragh barely break a sweat through his exercise. Kristen can’t help but be somewhat jealous of Ragh; he makes being strong look so easy.

“...498, 499, 500.” Ragh finishes his set and collapses onto the grass. She can’t tell if he really did 500 press ups, but she wouldn’t put it past him. 

“So what did you wanna know?” He asks, reaching for his water bottle. Kristen passes it to him to give her hands something to do, but he takes it and then she’s back to fidgeting nervously.

“I just, I have this… thing. And I’ve tried talking to Tracker, and Jawbone, and even your mom, dude- which helped, your mom is the coolest - but I just feel like they don’t- they fully don’t get it? And I’m hoping maybe you do because I feel like you know what it’s like to be really important to someone and then all of a sudden you’re nothing to them, and of course you’re really important to lots of new people now and you should be grateful for that, but all you can focus on is that you’re nothing to one person even though you’re not nothing but you are, and you look in the mirror and you think, ‘Wow; a total stranger could be staring back at me, and I don’t know if I would be able to tell the difference-”

“Kristen,” Ragh says. She doesn’t even realise she’s hyperventilating until she feels his large hands on her heaving shoulders, encouraging her to breathe. She shudders and hiccups and eventually calms down, apologies spilling out of her mouth like coins from a fountain, tasting like copper, like blood. Ragh keeps his hands on her shoulders and shushes her in that comforting, cool-older-brother-who-lives-in-the-basement kinda way.

“Dude, I get it,” He admits. “Dayne was my best friend, and Daybreak was my coach, and then I found out they were kinda evil cause you guys kinda killed me, and even now I think like, ‘Man, what if you did something different?’ but the thing is, man, that some bad people are gonna be bad no matter what you do, and you gotta accept that to be happy, bro. You get me?”

‘Yes,’ Kristen thinks in surprise, and then nods in affirmation. “That’s like, exactly how I’m feeling.” 

There is a pause, and she sees Ragh lie down in the grass out of the corner of her eye. She follows suit, laying on her back and staring aimlessly at the sky dotted with lazy, watery clouds wisping off the white afternoon sun. 

“I feel it. And all you can do is what you can, you know? You don’t owe anyone your recovery except yourself.” 

She’s momentarily silenced by his raw sentiment and profundity, which is immediately followed up by, “Dude, that cloud sorta looks like a dick.”

Kristen, for a brief second, forgets to be miserable and laughs, really laughs; snorting and wheezing and thinking that this must be proof that there is more to life than her self hatred, right?

*  
Kristen has to admit, the Compass Point library is way cooler than she originally gave it credit for. When the Bad Kids first came across it, they’d been distracted with the mission - cursed gems, crowns and forests. But as she steps through the doorway linking Mordred to Leviathan, she admits to herself that it deserves more appreciation. It’s the perfect mix of archaic and modern, quiet without being uncomfortable, and filled with every scroll, book and tome she could even dream of reading in her life. (She bets Adaine has torn through most of them already, but it’s not like she’s an immortal elf with a brain hardwired for perfection.) 

Ayda isn’t there when she arrives, so Kristen takes to perusing the shelves for something to read as she waits. There’s not much in the Compass Points in the way of religious texts, to her disappointment, although maybe that’s a good thing. The line between learning and intentionally triggering herself is thin and blurry and one that she doesn’t really know how to navigate. She eventually settles on a book of pirate children’s stories, and she’s halfway into Sleeping Blackbeard when she hears the tell tale clacking of talons on hardwood floors. 

Ayda hasn’t changed much from when they first met, but she’s a little different, a little softer around the edges. She still looks formidable, with her double holster of books and fiery wings, hair and eyes, but she’s in a comfy oversized sweater and her expression is gentler. Fig, in all her harshness, has softened Ayda with her love, and it’s so beautiful to see that it almost hurts. Kristen thinks that as much as she loves Tracker, their relationship has only made her more chaotic, more erratic, and she doubts she’s a good influence on her girlfriend either. 

“Kristen Applebees,” Ayda says. “Your presence here is unusual.”

Kristen stands up, and holds the pirate children’s book close to her chest. 

“Hey Ayda. I was wondering if I could talk to you?” 

Ayda tilts her head, birdlike and precise. “You’re already talking to me.”

“Yeah, no, I know. I meant, like, can I talk to you about something specific? I just have some questions, I guess?” She forces out from between her clenching teeth, still unwilling to admit she needs help, even if she really, really needs help.

Ayda stares at her for a moment, and she feels the faint resonance of a spell being cast wash over her. Comprehend Subtext, she presumes, since Fig isn’t here to explain things. It’s rare that Ayda casts the spell on Kristen, since she nearly always says exactly what she means, often to a fault. But lately dishonesty has come more naturally to her than she’s more comfortable with, since the truth is still unreasonably hard to admit. 

“Yes,” Ayda finally says, and immediately turns on her heel to walk towards a secluded nook of the library that Kristen wouldn’t have noticed unless she was looking for it, which she guesses is the point. She follows Ayda and forgoes a chair for sitting on the floor, leaning against a dangerously rickety bookshelf. Ayda joins her on the floor after a pause.

“You chose to sit on the floor, rather than one of the available chairs.” She observes.

“Yeah, it just feels less formal, I guess? I usually sit on the floor no matter where I am.”

“You say ‘I guess’ a lot. Are you not certain of something?” 

‘I’m not sure of anything,’ She wants to say but doesn’t, instead folding her hands in her lap.

“There’s some things I’m not sure about, yeah. That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. Ayda, how did you come out? Like, to your parents?”

The wizard furrows her brows.

“I was raised by Garthy O’Brien. I never had to come out to them, likely due to their own queer identity.”

Kristen feels her heart sink a little. There’s a small, selfish part of her that wishes more people had a traumatic coming out experience, if only so she feels less alone. Ragh understands to an extent, sure, but his mom has never been anything but accepting. She wonders how being gay can make you feel so connected to those around you and so very alone at the same time. Things shouldn’t be two opposite things at once, but they so often are. Kristen is somehow both happy and miserable, alive and dead, holy and sinful. The dichotomy of her existence is so frustrating she could scream. She tells Ayda as such.

“That sounds complicated.” She notes.

“It is.”

“Normally I like things that are complicated, because it makes finding the answer more satisfying. But this situation appears frustrating. How are you supposed to find the answer when you do not know the question?”

Kristen slumps further against the bookshelf behind her and sighs. She sighs a lot, feels her chest rise and fall in defeatist acceptance. 

“But I do know the question - I can’t stop asking myself it. Why am I still so hung up on this Helio stuff?”

A voice from within her speaks up; maybe it’s Cassandra, or herself, or someone else entirely, or somehow all three at once, existing in cacophonous harmony. 

‘What if the real question is why are you so angry at yourself for being hung up on this to begin with?’ 

Kristen thinks, and attempts to run a hand through her knotted hair. Sure, the fact that she can’t remember the last time she brushed her hair is somewhat alarming, but the task of self care, like most things in her life, feels simultaneously insignificant and insurmountable. Ayda notices her pensive expression, because Ayda notices everything, and gives her a firm but comforting squeeze on the arm. It means a lot, with Ayda being so touch averse and Kristen so touch starved. 

“I get hung up on things extremely often, Kristen Applebees. But I do not let this fact diminish my opinion of my own self worth, as it is in a person’s nature to get hung up, as it were. I think the fact you are so distressed over this is proof that you care. And I can think of a lot of worse qualities to have than caring a lot. This trait you have may be difficult, but that does not reflect on your character or potential for love and happiness. You are not something to be fixed, Kristen Applebees.”

Ayda’s words, though not imbued with the verbal components of a spell, nonetheless send a warm, magical tingle down her spine. It’s a lot harder to hate herself for caring too much than it is to hate herself for not letting things go, even though there isn’t much of a difference between the two.

“Thanks, Ayda.” She says earnestly, leaning forward to look her in the eye. There’s something kind but fiery in Ayda's gaze, something she used to see in her own reflection, before the fire fizzled out. But being told she isn’t broken, being told her greatest fault is perhaps also her greatest strength - it gives her hope that there might be more left to her yet.

*

Fig must be a lot better at reading her than Kristen has previously given her credit for, because she finds her before she even decides on going to the archdevil slash famous rockstar slash pseudo-sister herself.

The outside world, though calming, still terrifies Kristen - the people, the feeling of suffocating in a crowd, the fear she might pour her heart out to some poor, unwitting stranger - so she tries to limit her outings to school (well, not recently) and Mordred’s garden (apart from when even her own backyard overwhelms her). Which is why it comes as a little more than just a surprise when right as she enters Mordred through the Compass Points, she feels herself pounced upon and ripped through space, enough to make her feel sick. Cassandra damn it, she hates Dimension Door, she thinks as she feels her stomach and heart lurch. When the colours fade from behind her skull and she opens her eyes, Fig is clutching her forearms and avoiding eye contact in the parking lot of Basrar’s. Fig is hot, sometimes uncomfortably so, but she doesn’t mind the warmth when she still feels so tepid and stagnant.

“Fig.” She tries to force anger into her voice, but she thinks it just sounds tired instead.

“Kristen. Friend. Fellow Bad Kid. Found family.”

“Fig.” She sounds a little sterner, and Fig finally looks her in the eyes. She looks excited and nervous and maybe a little guilty, but Kristen doesn’t remember whether that’s normal for her or not.

“I’m sorry - no teleporting, I know,” Fig says after a moment. “But it’s- it’s important.”

Kristen glances around the parking lot, half expecting a hell hound to emerge from behind the battered pick up truck that’s always there for some reason. She almost asks Fig why ice cream is so important, but something about the slightly frantic glint in her eye makes her hesitate.

“What’s important?” She says instead. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes- well, no. Sandralynn is planning on surprising you with, like, a get well soon dinner and I wanted to save you from that.” 

“Get well soon? But I’m not- I’m not sick.” 

She wasn’t sick, was she? Sure, her mind was debilitating at times, and sure, she hasn’t been at school all week, and sure, the topic of any conversation around her always ends up being about Helio, and it’s ironic that she thinks about him more than she did when she was his chosen because he was just a part of her life and she didn’t need to think about him because who thinks about water until they’re thirsty, who thinks about love until they’re lonely, and who thinks about god until they’re condemned? 

Fig has to physically shake Kristen out of her short detour into existential bullshit, and damn it, she really needs to stop getting distracted mid-conversation. 

“No, I- I know that. And I think it’s more of a feel better soon dinner anyway. But like, there’s something up with you, I can- I can tell.” Something funny happens to Fig’s voice at the end of her sentence, like something cloying and sweet gone sour. Kristen chews on the bitter taste of her lip.

“Yeah, I’m like, going through stuff.” (She has to try really, really hard to not add an ‘I guess’ after that, remembering Ayda’s words. She tells her uncertainty to stop being so certain.) “But I went to a therapy session with Adaine, and I talked to Jawbone, and Ragh and-”

“But you didn’t talk to me.” 

Oh. So that’s why Fig teleported her to the parking lot outside Basrar’s. She feels guilt bubble in her throat like stomach acid, hot and burning. 

“I-I’m sorry. I just- I didn’t think. I know I never do.” 

“Kristen, I’m not mad. I’m not.” Fig says, and the relief floods her stomach like a waterfall, cooling and calm, even if she doesn’t fully believe her. 

“I understand not being great out opening up - talking so much and yet not saying much at all, cause it’s easier. i just wish you didn’t feel like you had to go through this - through anything - on your own.” The sour note in her tone turns sad, like grey honey, and it makes Kristen want to cry. She knows, she knows Fig would understand, and she can’t explain to herself why she didn’t talk to her earlier. Fig knew exactly what it was like to suddenly not belong to the place she called home and the people she called family. Trauma is best served shared, she realises, and there is no real difference between devils and gods if they are both terrible at loving and great at leaving.

Kristen opens her mouth to- what, apologise again? Offer some weak comfort? Cry? Words fail her, like they so often do, and all she can do is pull Fig close in a tight, desperate hug, affection saying all the things she can’t. Fig tenses, shudders, and practically falls into Kristen, and if she’s crying as she does, neither of them comment on it.

“Thanks for caring,” Kristen mumbles into Fig’s hair, and she feels the other girl clutch her just a little bit closer. “But can I ask you for something?”

“Hm?”

“Teleport us back to Mordred? I feel bad bailing on Sandralynn.” 

Fig snorts, her face still buried in the crook of Kristen’s neck and her voice still wet with tears.

“You’re seriously too nice sometimes, Applebees. Let’s go.” 

And this time, hearing her last name doesn’t remind her of her family, since she’s found a new one and that’s something to celebrate, not be ashamed of.

*

They get back to Mordred just in time, appearing in the dining room right as Sandralynn stands up, a little hurt, and says with a sigh, “If she doesn’t want to come, I guess I can’t force her-” followed by a very surprised. “Oh.” 

Once Kristen’s surroundings stop spinning from the damned Dimension Door, she sees that everyone is gathered here waiting for her: Aelwyn and Adaine were talking quietly together; Jawbone and Lydia were ferrying food from the kitchen to the table with Ragh’s help; even Zayn, usually confined to Adaine’s tower, had made an appearance; and Tracker, sat at the table on her crystal, which probably explained the buzzing of messages she’s suddenly been receiving. Sandralynn sits down again abruptly, a mix of shock, relief and frustration.

“Fig, what have I said about teleporting in the house? And Kristen, where were you? We’ve been worried sick.” 

Kristen cuts in before Fig can make up some grandiose, elaborate lie about where they’ve been. She’s beginning to miss how easy telling the truth all the time is.

“Fig wanted to talk to me. And also to get me away from here since, although I appreciate it, the get well soon dinner is a bit much.”

Sandralynn’s eyebrows furrow, knitting together into a frown.

“It was supposed to be a surprise dinner-”

She interrupts again, wondering where this sudden spring of confidence has come from. Did she steal it from Fig, who’s stood silently at her side? Has it always been a part of her? Did she not feel like she deserved to be heard before now? She wouldn’t put it past herself to feel that way. But she’s here now, and the residents of Mordred are listening, and she needs to - wants to - say something. She makes eye contact with Sandralynn, apologising and asking permission and saying something else that she can’t quite figure out yet. The elven woman looks back, and sees and feels everything she’s trying to say, and lets her talk. And Sandralynn isn’t her mother. She doesn’t even see her as a maternal figure, really, but having her support suddenly feels like everything she wanted - everything she deserved - from her parents and didn’t get, suddenly given as a small but significant gift. 

“I appreciate the thought, really I do. But I’m not- I’m not sick.” She takes a deep breath, and thinks of Fig reminding her that it’s okay to open up, of the grey honey in her voice, sad but sweet. “I just think- no I know,” She corrects herself, hearing Ayda say ‘You are not something to be fixed, Kristen Applebees.’ “That I’ve been struggling lately, and I know you all know this. I’m sure it’s been confusing for you, or annoying-” She paused and reminds herself of Ragh’s words; ‘You don’t owe anyone your recovery except yourself.’ 

“But my struggle with Helio and the church is part of who I am, and I won’t apologise for that.” She catches half of Zayn’s eye, and she hears him say ‘You’re alright. Kristen.’ She realises alright doesn’t have to mean all-right, and her wrongs aren’t so wrong after all. “Helio was and always will be part of who I am, but it doesn’t have to be everything that I am,” She sees Lydia smile at her and nod - ‘I’m more than the adventurer who stuck a gem in her chest’ - and Kristen is more than the broken little girl who went to Helioc school and lost her family when it turned out Helio wasn’t who he said he was. And that’s okay.

“I have trauma.” She catches Aelwyn stiffen, and vows to be the one to say it first, to make it even a minuscule amount easier for the other girl to admit it, laying out pavestones like the old priests of Helio, but softer, kinder than them. “My parents did a lot of bad things to a lot of people, including me. And I’m still working through that. I’m going to be for a while,” She thinks of Adaine’s therapy sessions, stifling yet kind, and decides to give second chances a second chance, trusting Adaine as the oracle, and more importantly, her friend.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m broken, or unloved. I have a life here, and my religious doubts won’t ruin that.” She still doesn’t quite believe it, but Jawbone smiles with tooth and fang (she remembers his promise - ‘No one will ever make you go back there, Kristen.’ - and how much he cared, without ever needing to).

“I have you guys. I have you.” Kristen turns and looks at Tracker, really looks at the woman she loves, in the face of all the hatred and bigotry. Tracker, who knows more than anyone what it’s like to lose faith and find it again in beautiful, unexpected places. Tracker, who has tended to her by her side during her absence from herself, like a guard keeping watch in the night. Tracker, who must be so tired of the panic attacks and sleepless nights and all the fucking questions, and yet spent every day of her week long breakdown caring and keeping and loving. Tracker, who loves her irrevocably, irresponsibly, and unapologetically; not only in spite of her flaws but even more so because of it. Tracker, who is the first sin Kristen committed and is yet so holy, so godlike; her very own false idol and yet the purest angel held close in her sinful arms. Tracker, her girlfriend, and every brilliant and terrible thing that that word evokes.

Tracker reaches over and gives her hand a squeeze, physicality speaking volumes in her silence. The faces of Mordred, her family, look back at her like mirrors and windows, reflecting comfort and compassion and light. Kristen, in her ethereal self actualisation, is rocketed back to reality by the loud, impertinent growl of her stomach and she sits down without finishing her speech because nothing about her is finished and oh, isn’t that something to celebrate? 

Jawbone, whose been grinning this whole time, clears his throat. 

“We’re all real happy to hear it, kiddo. Now, who wants tacos?” 

There is a clamouring sound of enthusiasm from around the table. Kristen joins in, making noise just because she can; let’s go of the guilt of being loud and Cassandra knows it feels good to value speaking for the sake of itself, rather than worrying about being heard.

*

The next morning, Kristen wakes up with a headache, like usual, because some things are not so easily fixed as a dinner of tacos with close friends and family. But this time, as she half-heartedly casts Healing Word whilst still wrapped in the arms of sleep. And it works. The magic that is so loathe to leave her hands stutters and stammers and flows out, silver-purple light dancing from her fingertips without the tell tale ache of wanting to stay behind in the darkness of her soul. It’s not burning hot but pleasantly warm, and it still smells a little bit like popcorn and it probably always will, but there are worse traces of her past to have. 

Kristen rolls out of bed and pads to the bathroom to find her reflection, and while it still looks like someone else, that person is a little more familiar than a stranger, a person she could treat with kindness rather than cruelty. In the mirror she sees Helio, and Cassandra, parts of her but not her; a sad but hopeful, tired looking girl with eyes that kaleidoscope in colour, in the same slightly old and borrowed band tee; and another girl whose band tee she doesn’t want back because it looks better on her girlfriend, who she wraps her arms around and presses a kiss to her neck.

“Morning.” Tracker murmurs into her nape, hot morning breath tickling the hair at the back of her neck.

“Morning, babe.” She whispers back, holding her close for the sake of being close, delightful and delicious.

“You doing okay?” 

Kristen keeps looking at their reflection, intertwined and softened by condensation. Whether she’s okay is almost as hard a question as why she was punishing herself for not letting go of letting go. She feels like she has changed everything about herself and yet changed nothing; her reflection is still a little tired, a little plain but refreshingly, relievingly normal. She’s not a chosen prophet, or a damned hellmouth. She’s a teenage girl with teenage bullshit and a girlfriend she really wants to kiss, so she does. Tracker looks at her like she’s not heaven but earth which is even better, because earth has friends and band tees and tacos for dinner. And Kristen is both good and not good, because the inverse of something is just itself, not the negative, twisted version of it. Not bad, not evil, not sinful. She is simply both good and not good. Kristen Applebees is used to worshipping Helio, and she hasn’t quite let that go, but her worship takes many forms: her girlfriend; her loving, mismatched family; her constant whirring, overthinking mind; and every single broken piece that makes her who she is, fractured and fantastic. And is she okay?

“Yes,” She answers finally, with a resounding yes, with no question or exclamation mark, just yes, beautiful and perfect all on its own.


End file.
